


The Pale and Ancient Moon

by Readerofmuch



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: As of the end of season two, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Fae & Fairies, The horse's origin story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readerofmuch/pseuds/Readerofmuch
Summary: The summer was to be their last as children. Each of them had plans for the future, plans they looked to with excitement. The present, though, still awaited them. Marc, Rilla and Tal each have their own fair share of tasks to attend to and their own concerns. The new foals were never meant to be one of them. Despite this, the newest and the smallest of them as won Marc's heart despite his best efforts. The waters here are not so smooth, though, and they must all tread carefully to avoid going under.





	The Pale and Ancient Moon

The summer was to be their last as children. Each of them had plans for the future, plans they looked to with excitement. Talfryn had earned himself a place at the elbow of the tracker who sometimes frequented Father’s little shop by following him through the town unnoticed and tracking him back to his forest camp. Rilla too had plans. Her parents, missing now, had left plenty behind for her to pour over. Even Marc showed enough aptitude for tinkering that had his father set him a bench in the workshop. He already knew his true passion, although it was easily dismissed. For now, though, the fever was racing through the Citadel with the summer heat, and the three had been shipped out of town to stay at a cousin's farm.

"You're more than welcome here," Cousin Deiniol had said, "But you'll have to make yourselves useful. Seren can always use help in the kitchens and there's plenty of work in the stables and fields for a strapping young man such as you, Talfryn."

Talfryn's audible gulp served as an excellent reflection of the first few days of summer. There was indeed plenty to do. However, there were also long afternoons of free time and plenty of forest to explore. Talfryn came back after one particular afternoon early in their stay brimming with joy.

"You wouldn't believe the way the river moves here, Marc! Close to the citadel, it's quiet and mostly calm, but here? It looks like- like- it's really impressive is the point."

"That's nice, Tal," said Marc, from his pallet.

"Are you even listening?"

"Huh?"

"Marc!"

"I'm sorry, Tal, I'm just tired. I only barely made it to the barn to see Champagne."

"How is she doing?"

"Deiniol says she'll foal soon, although he's hoping for Saint Eli's day."

"Saint Eli?" said Rilla, stepping into the main bedroom. She was technically sleeping in the loft above the room, used for storing blankets, but found herself down with her brothers more often than not.

"We're talking about Champagne. Deiniol wants her to foal in two days, on Saint Eli's day," said Marc automatically, then, "Wait, weren't you making dinner with Seren?"

"I'm banned from the kitchen now," said Rilla. She sat down in their circle nonchalantly.

"What?" asked Talfryn.

"It turns out, making the stove hotter doesn't actually make the roti cook faster."

She shrugged and joined the conversation without much fuss. Marc and Talfryn, well accustomed to their sister, didn’t comment.

The rest of the night passed fairly quietly- they had curry with rice conspicuously lacking roti and spent the evening working quietly on new projects or, in Talfryn's case, serving as a human spindle for Seren's ball of wool.

Foaling season had begun, according to Deiniol, so that night served as the last of Marc's peace. The next morning, Deiniol woke him early, barely giving him time to strap himself into his braces and gather his things before leading him on a tottering walk. His crutches kept sinking into the dirt, and his bag kept swinging him of balance, but he still made it to the horse barn. Deiniol wasn't a cruel man. He was practical, was all. So, his next statement only made sense.

"I've found a good use for you yet. Champagne will foal within the next week. There's a space for you here, in the hay loft, and your job is to watch over her. She's had a hard pregnancy, and I'll need to be there for the birthing. "

Marc blinked.

"There's no way I'll be able to get up to the hayloft," he pointed out. "Can't I sleep in the house?"

Deiniol shook his head.

"Most horses foal at night. I'll need you here to ring the bell at the door when it happens."

Marc dropped his bag and sat down hard on a hay bale.

"That's the spirit! I told you when you came, you'd be making yourself useful, and here we are. I'll send out Talfryn with breakfast for you."

"Great," said Marc, but Deiniol was already gone. "Guess it's just you and me, huh Champagne?"

As if in response, Champagne nickered. Marc smiled, despite himself. She really was a good horse.

There were almost a dozen horses here, all bound for greatness as noble steeds or delicate mounts for ladies across the citadel. Beside the growing horses were a handful of yearlings, four pregnant mares and Champagne. She was a beautiful horse, with soft fur the colour of her name and a delicate, placid face. She was lovely, and she had the stall nearest to Marc's impromptu resting place.

"Might as well make the best out of this," he muttered and began to adjust his surroundings.

By the time Talfryn brought out a cup of last night's rice with fresh fish on the side, Marc had added a blanket to his little bale and set up a little workstation with all of his tools so he could tinker while he watched.

"Wow, Marc, you're really taking this well," said Talfryn. He had sat on the ground across from Marc and was now carefully separating his rice from the fish before eating them both separately. "Rilla was so mad when they told us I thought for sure we'd have to go home early."

Marc shrugged.

"It's something to do, at least," he said around a mouthful of fish. "I think if I'd spent one more day sitting in that farmhouse mending clothes, I'd have gone mad."

Talfryn shrugged and Marc groaned.

“She wouldn’t.”

“She’s offered you a loom if you’d rather make horse blankets.”

“Well I guess I’d better start sewing.”

Life in the barn wasn’t terrible. During the day, Talfryn helped him move to a bale set just across from the paddock so he could watch the horses. At night, Rilla joined them in the barn for supper. She had left a box of her parents’ highly illegal notes and books in the hayloft and aside from seeing her brothers, was always keen to spend time with her inheritance.

The nights were the hard part. The barn was never quiet: the horses made plenty of noise and the sounds of the forest outside seeped through the barn’s thin walls. He could hear the river in the distance rushing like a dozen galloping horses. Each time he settled himself under the thin blanket that served as a bed he could hear the river. How had he never heard this during the day? Could it be that the stillness of the night was all it took to magnify the sound?

The nights to Saint Eli’s day passed in a haze of needle pricks and scratchy hay bedding. Champagne was a calm horse, but it was becoming clear that her distended belly was proving more of a discomfort with each passing day. Even Deiniol seemed concerned. He came out to the barn after supper that day to look her up and dow.

“She been sleeping?”

Marc shrugged.

“On and off, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. She’s so… quiet.”

Deiniol grunted.

“Saint Eli’s day is tomorrow. If she doesn’t pop tonight, we’ll have to induce. You keep a close eye on her tonight- keep those braces of yours on.”

Marc nodded and tried to conceal his wince. His braces were neither pleasant nor convenient, but it would be even less convenient to be struggling to strap himself into them half asleep while a horse gave birth beside him. Talfryn was sent out after dark to muck out the stall despite his protests and to set up fresh straw for her. It seemed like the entire farm was on edge. Even the river was quieter that night. Champagne hardly slept at all. Instead, she paced in her stall and whinnied in the direction of the river.

Marc managed a few scattered seconds of sleep. The first part of the night passed in a haze of lamplight and worried nickering from the other horses.

He almost missed it when Champagne actually went into labour. He barely managed to pull himself to his feet and swing his way across the barn.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself as lights came on in the farm house and Deiniol made his way (slowly, too slowly) out to the horse barn.

By the time the morning light crested above the trees just beyond the boundary of the farm, Champagne was the proud mother of not one but two impossible delicate foals. The first to be born was the same tawny gold as her mother. She stood in seconds and started to nurse. The second was much slower. He was small, Marc could tell, too small, and black from head to foot but for one small patch of champagne brown on his forehead. For a few agonizing minutes after his birth, while his mother licked him and his sister fed, it looked like he would not rise at all.  But he stood in the end. His legs were too skinny. His sister had almost a full hand more of height than the wobbly colt. He lived through the night, though, and that was a start.  

The question now was whether he’d make it another night. Marc spent most of the day after the colts were born watching them in the smaller paddock beside the barn. Deiniol refused to name them until they'd seen the better part of two weeks but Marc was already feeling a kinship with the dark foal. He was smaller than his sister and struggled to feed, or even to walk. While she tottered around the small field, exploring without leaving her mother too far behind, he was her shadow in all but the literal sense of the word. Marc almost dozed off sitting on that hay bale. Even awake, he was distracted. distracted in fact that he nearly missed it when someone sat down next to him.

"Such a shame, isn't it," said the man who had sat next to him. Marc blinked and turned to the stranger. He was a strong-featured man with dark eyes focused intently on the horses. When he noticed Marc had glanced his way, he turned that gaze on Marc. Instantly, Marc's mouth went dry. The man only waited patiently, still fixing is gaze intently on Marc.

"A shame?" Marc stammered out at last. The man nodded and turned his gaze back to the horses.

"He's going to die, you know."

"What?"

"The colt. He's not strong enough. The farmer knows it. Why else won't he name him?"

Marc stammered again, searching for an answer that didn't exist.

"If only there were some way to save him," the man mused. The sun sparkled on his necklace, a delicate piece of silver filigree that was too fine for any farmer. He cleared his throat delicately and Marc realized that he had been caught staring.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"No need to apologize. The necklace is very fine. It was... a gift, from someone I care for very much."

"She must be very kind."

"Yes," said the stranger, "he is.  But I had to earn his love, earn his forgiveness. While I was..."

He gestured at the dark newborn nursing in the field.

"I would not like to see him die."

"What can I do?" asked Marc. He had meant to sound dismissive, to send this abhorrent stranger on his way. Instead, his voice rang with earnest curiosity.

"It will take work," said the man. "A newborn ke-colt feeds every few hours. This one will need hand feeding. The farmer can show you how to make the formula and fill the bottle for him, but it will be a commitment."

"I'll do it," said Marc.

"You'll be a fine man. A fine knight, perhaps."

“Who did you say you were?” asked Marc.

“Just a neighbour,” said the stranger, smiling. He stood and turned to the forest. Before he left though, he looked Marc dead in the eye.

"There's plenty of help available to you, if you only know where to look."

He bent and kissed Marc's forehead delicately. Marc blinked and tried to keep his face from turning as red as a stormy sunrise.

"It was nice to meet you, Sir Marc of the Craftsman's Quarter," said the stranger.

He was quickly gone, but the sparkle of light off silver revealed that he had left something behind. The sun sparkled off of a delicate silver whistle. It was small, almost lost in the straw. Marc stuffed it into his pocket before anyone else could see the sparkle.

Deiniol was surprised that night when Marc asked to keep staying in the barn. He was even more surprised when he heard Marc's suggestion. In the end, he obliged. Talfryn helped Marc to set up a more permanent bedroom in the barn, and with Rilla’s help rigged a device that would wake him every two hours to feed the dark colt. He was still weak, but he seemed to be improving, if slowly. He grew taller, although he was still only walking a few steps at a time. His sister cantered beside her mother. The darkling stood at the fence in front of Marc, waiting placidly.

By the end of the first week, the dark colt was perhaps half the size of his sister. Marc was now the full-time nursemaid to a horse as wobbly as he was who didn't quite understand personal space. Talfryn and Rilla brought him food, kept him company and helped in his vigil, but he was undeniably alone most of the time.

"Is there some way we can help?" Rilla asked as the week drew to a close.

Talfryn, who was feeding the horse at the time, nodded.

"I don't know," said Marc. "I just- I don't want him to die."

"Of course not," said Rilla. "So, let us help you."

They kept bringing him things. Talfryn dragged a proper straw mattress out to the corner of the barn that was now officially Marc's. Rilla boxed up his workshop and set it in the corner on a plank of wood nabbed from the firewood stack. More often than not, one or both of them would spend the night in the hayloft just so he wasn't alone. But the horse kept getting weaker.

When he made it to two weeks and earned himself a name, they all celebrated with exhaustion written deep beneath their eyes.

"Dampierre," Marc decided. The tawny foal, Namur, had already been sold in advance. When she was older, she would be sold to join the knightly flock. Some squire would learn to care for her and eventually ride her himself. Dampierre was fit for nothing so noble.

After watching Marc fretting for weeks, even Deiniol couldn’t bear it anymore. He brought the night’s supper of chicken and rice out to Marc by himself. Marc took the bowl gratefully and didn’t ask where the others were.

“You know I’ve been running this farm since I was not much older than you?”

Marc nodded with his mouth full, trying to look interested.

“My father died when I was 17, leaving me to run this place myself. It was hard, at first. I lost plenty learning the lesson of farming. You know what got me through it?”

Marc looked up from his plate like a deer caught in torchlight.

“Mmnnm?”

Deiniol, not looking at him, kept plowing onwards.

“I had to keep moving on. If we let ourselves get stuck on one animal or one crop, all of the others can fall by the wayside.”

Marc’s chicken turned to ash in his mouth.

“Have you ever looked at the other horses? Sierra will foal soon. There’ll be another foal to spend time on. I can show you how to prepare food for the pregnant mares, even teach you to ride. Does that sound good?”

Marc nodded, staring straight ahead.

“I’m glad,” said Deiniol, standing. “Sometimes you just have to learn to let things go.”

He took Marc’s plate from numb hands and left the barn carefully. Marc didn’t react. Instead, he sat, staring straight ahead. He wasn’t sure how long he spent, just watching the lantern light flicker on his shoes.

“Marc?” called Rilla from the entrance. “Are you okay?”

Marc didn’t move. She took a few steps into the barn, but Marc still didn’t react. A few seconds later, she was perched on the straw next to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. A few seconds later, the straw shifted again and Talfryn’s weight on his side anchored Marc again. He leaned into his little brother’s hug with his shoulders shaking. It took a few seconds for Marc to realise that he was crying.

When he finally took a deep breath and steadied himself, they were still right next to him.

“What can we do?” asked Rilla, steely eyed. Marc’s eyes flickered to the hayloft, but he shook his head.

“I think Deiniol is right. Sometimes, you just have to let go.”

“But Marc, you never give up,” said Talfryn. “You once spent three straight hours convincing the baker you couldn't possibly have broken the front window since you were halfway across the town at the time, and he'd seen you do it."

"And he believed me, too," said Marc. "But sometimes you have to let things go. Right, Rilla?"

 Marc shot his sister an imploring glance. She nodded.

“Of course.”

It seemed they agreed: no matter what happened, Talfryn would not be involved. Neither of them was willing to see their little brother get hurt.

"Come on Tal, I'll walk you back to the farmhouse,” said Marc, a transparent change f subject.  “Maybe Auntie would be willing to draw some water up, I smell like a horse."

"You always smell like a horse," said Talfryn.

"Fair enough," said Marc. "Give your favorite sibling a hand up?"

"Sure. Rilla, do you need any help?"

Marc scoffed, mortally wounded. Rilla chuckled beside him and for a moment, things were back to normal. Then Champagne nickered and Namur stomped a hoof and Dampierre did nothing but stand there and Marc remembered.

"Rilla, will you-"

"I'll be here until you get back," said Rilla. "There's a bottle already made. I'll keep him safe. I promise."

"Okay," said Marc. "Okay."

Talfryn helped him stand up and get his crutches under him. He made his way out of the barn almost without looking back. Dampierre, standing completely still, didn't even react as he left. Marc couldn't tell if he didn't care or didn't notice. Neither boded well for his future as a stallion, or even a yearling.

Seren looked glad to see him in the house at all. She drew up hot water for a bath without even a complaint, although she couldn't resist a little fussing.

"Look at you," she said, dusting hay off his shoulder, "covered in the barn. And you're so skinny! You need to eat more and spend less time worrying."

"I've always been skinny, auntie, don't worry."

She tssked and shook her head as she walked out of the little back storage room where she'd set up the tub.

"I knew you when you were a little baby, Marc. I know you've always been small- saints know you were a tiny baby, nothing like your brother, and you were so quiet, too. You're like that now. Not Marc anymore. Almost... a shadow of yourself."

"I'm sorry Auntie, I'll eat more."

"Good. Now, you take your bath and then you can have a cup of sweet tea and whatever almond cakes Talfryn hasn't already inhaled. Then you can spend the night in a real bed."

Marc didn't say anything, but his face must have told her enough.

"Oh Marc. I hope you know what you're doing," she said as she left, to herself at much to him. "I really do." 

It didn’t take long for Marc to maneuver himself into the bath but every minute felt like too long. The water was warmer than he’d expected. He rubbed at the marks on his legs left behind by wearing his braces too tight, for too long. It felt good to relax. He couldn’t stay though. Dampierre needed him. Marc shifted in the water and felt his shoulders drop as something in his back unclenched for the first time in days if not weeks. He could probably afford another few minutes in the bath.

When Marc finally dragged himself out of the tub, it took everything he had to strap himself back into his braces and pick up his crutches. He could easily make his way to his room with Talfryn on just his crutches, leave Rilla in the barn for the night. She would probably encourage it, honestly. Dampierre wouldn't sleep if he wasn't there, he knew. Whenever Marc had to leave the barn at night, he would return to find the colt staring at him, regardless of whether Dampierre had been awake or asleep when Marc left.

Rilla hugged him when he made his way back out to the barn. There was an extra tin of lamp oil on a shelf well away from the hay and the crate of books was beside his bed.

His hair was still wet from the bath as Marc took his place on the mat. Dampierre came up to him as soon as he was seated, thrusting his head into Marc's personal space. Marc batted him back gently while he unfastened his braces. Finally, he leaned back and Dampierre wobbled his way to the floor. It was strange to watch him lay down, folding first his front half and then lowering his back end to the ground. Dampierre put his head gently into Marc's lap and looked up at him with peaceful brown eyes.

"I know, buddy," said Marc. "I'm trying."

Dampierre let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was taking his formula as well as ever, but he was getting skinnier as he got larger. Marc knew the situation was untenable. Eventually, something was going to give and he had the feeling it would be Dampierre.

Marc spent the night pouring over the books Rilla guarded with her life. There were some interesting sections: herbs to dampen pain, herbs to strengthen new mothers (and herbs to prevent new mothers, for that matter). Finally, though, Marc was forced to concede that the books on medicine couldn't help him. The more esoteric treatises on the nature of humanity and the origins of monsters were discarded nearly out of hand. Dampierre had fed twice before Marc finally gave in to sleep. He took off his braces, but didn't bother to properly undress. Even freshly bathed, everything he owned smelled of horses. Marc extinguished the lantern and laid down to rest.

He slept fitfully. Every dream was full of pain. He found himself wandering the land between sleep and waking, stumbling like a drunkard between dreams and a hazy view of the barn. Shadows shifted in the moonlight in a strange dance that reminded Marc of spinning around festivals with his mother in a child's parody of dancing. He felt almost feverishly warm until a cool hand stroked his cheek and pressed something cold into his hand.

When Marc woke up, the sky was still dark and the sun was only barely beginning to colour the horizon orange. He felt different. It took him a moment to realize why: his body didn't hurt. Sure, his legs were sore and his back was stiff from pushing himself into the corner to give Dampierre enough room to rest his head, but the persistent whole-body ache that had been with him for as long as he could remember was reduced to the point of being almost unnoticeable. As he shifted, Marc realized his fist was clenched and he remembered his strange dream the night before. His hand had warmed the metal up but it had done nothing to change the queer object in his hand. The small silver whistle clutched in his hand was undeniable. Before he could think better of it, he put the whistle to his lips and gave a single, sharp blast. The whistle was absolutely silent but Marc felt the hair on his neck stand up.

He turned the whistle over in his hand. It was dull now, smudged with blood. Marc hadn't even felt it before, but the edge of the whistle had cut into his hand. Beside him, Dampierre stirred. He sniffed the air curiously. Marc patted him with the hand that wasn’t bleeding.

“Morning buddy. How are you doing?”

Dampierre nickered gently, nosing at the whistle. Marc set it in the hay. Dampierre nudged at his hand and licked him gently.

“Dampierre, that’s disgusting!”

Dampierre ignored him until Marc pushed his head gently away. Dampierre took his formula that morning better than he ever had before and Marc spent the day pensive.

That night, he dreamed again. Strange, dark figures surrounded him like rushing water. Amidst them (above them?) stood the man in the silver necklace, with a strange, sad smile on his face. He mouthed something that Marc could only barely catch over the sound of the rushing water around him:

“You know what to do.”

When Marc woke, it was the witching hour. Time for neither man nor beast to be out of doors. Sitting up almost in a daze and strapping his braces on as easily as breathing, Marc smiled wryly. What better time than this for one on the cusp of adulthood and his not-quite-a-horse to go questing?

Dampierre was not asleep, when Marc came. He looked impatiently at Marc, who waved him off. They could both feel the strangeness in the air; it felt wrong to speak and break the silence of the impossible hour. Instead, they walked together into the forest.

Both of the wobbly-legged creatures faltered as they walked. More than once, Marc had to fight the urge to sit down and no stand up. Dampierre stumbled and tripped through the underbrush. Both of them studiously ignored the strange lights in their peripheral vision and the murmurs just beyond what they could make out. This was not a good time for mortal beings.

When they reached the river, it flowed like galloping horses. It seemed to be far more than the gentle brook Talfryn had described. Whether the river was rain-swollen or something else, Dampierre shied from it.

“Come on, buddy,” said Marc. He could feel eyes on his back as he tried to lead the horse further forwards. The rocks were wet with river water and slippery. He stepped as carefully as he could but he still felt unsettlingly off-balance. Like a newborn colt, perhaps. He barely had time to grin at his irony before the water caught his ankle, sending him off-balance. He might have been able to catch his balance again if Dampierre hadn’t surged forwards in concern. In the end, all Marc could do was fall backwards into the freezing water.

_Riverweed brushed against his skin like freezing cold fingers. The entire world was nothing but the hazy distortion of moonlight filtering through the water and the faint sound of- was that singing? Marc wanted to relax and listen, but his forehead was burning like the time Rilla had held her new magnifier to the sun on her last birthday. He couldn’t find peace here, he had to fight. Marc thrashed desperately, catching hold of a wet mane.  He had to- He needed to-_

_The world went dark, but before he lost consciousness complete, Marc felt the kiss of cold air on his soaked skin. The cool summer evening felt almost warm against his skin as the cold river mud pressed into his cheek._

“Marc!”

The sound of Talfryn’s voice jolted Marc from his unnatural slumber. Beside him, Dampierre’s eyes opened, but he didn’t move. The river that just last night had seemed so terrifying was now just an overlarge creek in the daylight now streaming through the branches. The entire clearing was a beautiful, pastoral scene. The only thing ruining it was the half-drowned teenager lying on the river bank spooning a colt who seemed, at least, stronger than the night before.

Talfryn was standing over Marc, offering a hand up. Further away, Deiniol was staring in absolute horror. Marc waved. Deiniol closed his mouth.

Tomorrow, they’d deal with the consequences (and there would absolutely be consequences).

Today, they went back to the farmhouse. If Talfryn carried his brother slightly more tightly than strictly necessary, neither of them said anything. Dampierre followed behind. No one at all commented on the gleam of silver. Not a necklace, exactly, but familiar nonetheless. Marc wasn’t certain anyone else could see it, but he found it to be almost a comfort. Dampierre would be just fine.

(Rilla punched him in the shoulder when he got back and then hugged him so tightly he ached. Talfryn wrapped them both in his massive arms, and Marc realized that he would be just fine too, so long as he had his family with him).

**Author's Note:**

> Title was taken from Richard Garnett's poem "The Kelpie and the Wrecker". Not credited earlier for minor spoiler purposes.


End file.
